


Narrative Journalism

by ClockworkCourier



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Humor, Based on a Tumblr Post, Chick-Flick Moments, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Everyone Is Alive, F/F, F/M, Fashion & Couture, Journalism, M/M, One Night Stands, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 13:26:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5786839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClockworkCourier/pseuds/ClockworkCourier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Narrative journalism, also referred to as literary journalism, is defined as creative nonfiction that contains accurate, well-researched information. It is related to immersion journalism, where a writer follows a subject or theme for a long period of time (weeks or months) and details an individual's experiences from a deeply personal perspective."</p><p>Alternatively; Rey is a journalist tasked with being Kylo Ren's personal assistant for two months in order to write an article about him. In short, he's an ass. In the long run, things are far more complicated than she thought.</p><p>There are certainly some sacrifices to be made in the name of great journalism.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Narrative Journalism

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elenlith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenlith/gifts).



> First and foremost, credit where credit is absolutely due in the form of [elenlith's](http://elenlith.tumblr.com) seriously fantastic [journalist AU](http://elenlith.tumblr.com/post/137455460261/rey-is-a-brilliant-journalist-who-made-herself). I've been pretty enchanted with it since I first read it, and I couldn't help myself. I know I'm not the first person to use it, but seriously, it was becoming an itch I couldn't scratch. So, I humbly add mine to the pile and hope that it's rad enough for an idea that good. <3
> 
> A lot of this is based off some pretty base 'chick flick' stuff. Plenty of Devil Wears Prada inspiration, but also my love for Truman Capote's work (Did I totally read my book about the Black & White Ball again for inspiration? YESSS.) and the coinciding spheres of fashion and journalism. I may dress like a sad college student, but it's only concealing the version of me that stays up until odd hours wearing pajama pants and devouring a whole bowl of Cheetos while watching one of the Big 4 Fashion Weeks. 
> 
> And my disclaimer! I'm not a journalist, nor am I an actual fashionista (so sayeth my paycheck). I've tried my best to research how fashion magazines work, as well as celebrity entourages and management. There's inevitably going to be holes in my research, but I tried my best to fill them. 
> 
>   ~~And Mirta Gev is the love of my life. She's going to be in this and no one can tell me otherwise. <3~~

_Elegance and poise. Eccentricity and activism. Few words better describe the life of Padmé Amidala, inarguably one of the most iconic figures of the twentieth century, and well into the twenty-first. It isn’t hard to form a mental picture of her, with her classic beauty and her powerful poses, carving a distinct impression into her era and into the eras beyond. She was a queen in her own right, overseeing a dominion that would stand the tests of time.  
  
Clothing lines and posters still bear her image to this day, along with the likes of Marilyn Monroe and Audrey Hepburn. She could swim with the best of Capote’s ‘swans’, but her passion and her tenacity is what set her apart from the Paleys and the Keiths, and made her uniquely Amidala. Scandals erupted over her outspoken nature, her notorious rejection for parties that she thought were ‘too wasteful and materialistic’, her protest of warfare and the waste of resources it entailed. She was a philanthropist, her compassion and empathy legendary. She was a champion of her age, and continues her reign.  
  
Her private life was a story unto itself, and her personal tragedies were what built her into the powerhouse she became. These moments planted the seeds for her will to fight back, to not accept society’s status quo for a woman of her position.  
  
This is not just Padmé Amidala, the icon. This is Padmé Amidala, the woman, the wife, the mother, the queen.  
_  
\---  
  
Rey ended the phone call feeling like she was mere seconds from squealing in excitement. Her cheeks were warm and sore from smiling, and the giddiness that started in her stomach was working its way higher and higher by the second. She tucked her phone back into her purse and then _laughed._ It felt good. It felt way _beyond_ good. Even though New York City was getting thoroughly drenched in a late afternoon shower, Rey’s day couldn’t have been brighter.  
  
For the past week, her email and phone had gone through the world’s best gauntlet. _Aurora_ , one of the nation’s top selling fashion magazines, had run her eight page article about Padmé Amidala in the May edition. The response was more than Rey could have ever hoped for. Glowing reviews, a resurgence in interest about the woman herself, and opportunities opening up like they never had before. Her last phone call had been the best, though. The editor-in-chief of _Aurora_ wanted to speak to her in person.  
  
It had been such a whirlwind that it left her feeling a little bit unseated. She had decided to ground herself by going to her favorite bakery in Greenwich Village, near the intersection between Perry and Hudson. There, she found familiarity from a time before _Aurora_ and staff meetings and wearing painful stilettos. Picking at a plain blueberry muffin, she felt a bit more anchored, remembering countless hours of sitting at the table next to the window, typing away on her laptop and hoping for the best. Dior, Chanel, and Givenchy eventually replaced her college-era hoodie-and-jeans combo, although she still favored her old pair of Chucks to the newest pair of heels. That wasn’t to say she hated her fashion change. To the contrary, she found it suited her more than she thought. But the rough fleece interior of her favorite sweater still brought her back to a considerably more simple time.  
  
Her trip into nostalgia couldn’t last very long, though. No one kept the editor-in-chief waiting.  
  
Rey braved the downpour, muffin in one hand, the other hand raised to hail a taxi. It wouldn’t be a horrendously long drive. _Aurora_ ’s offices were situated rather cleverly on West 42nd, near Times Square. It was a hop and skip from the Garment District, and just around the corner from the New York Times office. That way, _Aurora’_ s windows were right on the fashion and culture world.  
  
It was a relatively straight shot down Eighth Avenue. From the cab, Rey watched the trees and brownstones of Greenwich Village give way to steel and glass buildings, towering higher and higher the farther they went. The closer they came to Times Square, the more that touristy New York City raised its head. There were pizzerias by the handful, Chinese restaurants all claiming to be the original or the best, souvenir shops heavy on the kitsch, hop-on-hop-off bus tours, theaters, and semi-trendy cafes.  
  
Rey would have once been dazzled by places like that, once upon a time. It was a far cry from the places she had lived before, the tiny Arizona outpost that could hardly call itself a town, the dreary Connecticut suburb after that. She hardly remembered her time in England as a child, but she associated it with a rainy village in the countryside, so it couldn’t have been much of an improvement. New York City was a glittering jewel to her, held aloft by Hollywood movies and pictures in magazines. She would have been lying to herself if she said she didn’t keep the September issue of _Vogue_ under her bed in Arizona, and would page through it for the rest of the year until the edges were boxed and the perfume ads lost their scent.  
  
Now, the City was her home. It wasn’t a second, or a third. It was just _home_. She loved the high-rises, the skyscrapers, the saturation of deep summer and the harsh gray of winter. She didn’t even mind the tacky t-shirts and the bad pizza. It all just added to the experience, and there was never a tremble of hesitation in her voice when she called it her hometown. Her accent might have had a London lilt, but no other part of her cried out to return.  
  
As the glass-and-marble facade of _Aurora_ ’s office came into view, Rey felt a familiar thrill go through her. Appropriately, her phone buzzed in her bag like an announcement. She fished it out and answered it, cradling it between her chin and shoulder while she rifled through her wallet for the fare.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Hey! Where are you?” came a cheery voice. Rey grinned and pulled out her money as the cab pulled up to the curb. Jessika Pava’s voice was as good as sunlight on a day like this. The woman had been her roommate for nearly three years, having gotten her the position at _Aurora_ in the first place. Jess was an expert photographer, lauded and praised for her independent work as well as what she did for the magazine. Between her and Poe Dameron, _Aurora_ had earned something of a reputation for having some of the best photoshoots in the fashion world.  
  
“Just pulling up,” Rey replied as she paid. “I’ll be up in five minutes.”  
  
Jess sighed, but there was definitely a smile behind it. “Okay, good. Because she’s started _knitting_ , and you know what that means.”  
  
Rey’s eyes went wide and she leapt out of the cab to the sound of Jess cackling into the phone before hanging up.  
  
\---  
  
It was amazing what panic could do to the human body. It could cause an elderly person to lift a car off of a child, and it caused Rey to power walk to the elevator wearing stilettos that looked like they would snap under any more duress. The lobby of Sixel & Griffin Publishing was a typical high-power nest of business, so it took a good deal of dodging people in suits and weaving through conversational groups to get to the turnstiles.  
  
Rey could practically hear her own heartbeat in her ears, and the security guard looked sympathetic and let her in without another question. She crossed the tiny expanse to the elevators with a rapidfire _clack clack_ that only a pair of Givenchy heels could make, and she bodily shouldered her way into a closing elevator. The only other person was a bewildered woman with very strong bangs.  
  
“Editor-in-chief wants to see me,” is all Rey had to say, and the woman nodded with a grave expression.  
  
The ride up was sweat-inducing, and Rey all but sprinted out, moving so fast down the hallway that she almost made one poor woman drop her coffee. Jess was already waiting for her near the office door, Poe at her side. The man had a grin so mischievous that it made Rey nervous, but Jess just pat her on the shoulder.  
  
“You’re fine,” she assured, and Poe snorted. She ungently elbowed him in the ribs, and he expressed his apology with a rushed _whoof_ of air.  
  
Rey looked between them nervously. “She’s not mad?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Poe said, trying to subtly massage his ribcage. “She’s gotten pretty far into her scarf.”  
  
Jess threatened him with her elbow again, and he took a whole step back with both hands in the air in surrender.  
  
Rey took in a deep breath and swallowed hard before she knocked on the door. There was no ‘come in’, and Rey knew there wouldn’t be. She opened it slowly, taking tentative steps in. “Hello?”  
  
The woman sitting at the desk was not what Rey had expected when she started her job. What she had expected was a Priestly or a Wintour type, not someone who might have owned a SoHo art studio. Maz Kanata wasn’t what anyone would call unassuming, exactly. She would have passed under the radar of any less-informed person, but the fashion world worshipped her very name, and associated it with power and the demand for respect.  
  
Few expected her to be a tiny woman who knitted her own socks.  
  
She was dressed very simply for being the pinnacle of a publishing empire. Her hair was neatly hidden under a multicolored quilted hat, and her dark eyes were made cartoonishly huge by a massive pair of spectacles. She was dressed in a dark turquoise top and a sleek black vest, and Rey didn’t miss the multicolored knitted socks tucked up over her black trousers. The only real flair she had was a string of Tahitian pearls around her neck, and even those didn’t seem so glamorous on her. They just seemed natural.  
  
Just as Rey dreaded, there was indeed a half-completed scarf draping across half the desk. Maz’s needles were hard at work, but she paused to glance up at Rey.  
  
“You’re late,” she said, her voice deep but warm.  
  
“Maz, I am _so_ sorry,” Rey said, seating herself in the egg-shaped chair across from the desk.  
  
“Bah,” Maz huffed, waving her off. “It’s New York, girl. Besides, I wasn’t that far into the scarf.”  
  
They sat in silence permeated only by the clicking of knitting needles, until Maz set her project down and adjusted her glasses.  
  
“Rey, dear, how long did it take you to write your Amidala article?” she asked.  
  
“Um, about four weeks. Not counting research,” Rey answered, folding one leg over the other and resting her hands in her lap.  
  
Maz nodded and scooped the scarf back into an enormous leather bag at the side of the desk. “And with the research?”  
  
“I... I’ve researched her for nearly five years. I mean, the research for the article in particular was about six months, just to compile it.”  
  
“What about her fascinated you?”  
  
There were thousands of answers to that one question, and Rey had to sift through them. “There’s so many things,” she said honestly, leaning forward in her chair. “She was an icon not just for fashion, but her impact on our culture, and on events from the time. She was an activist when no one expected her to be. People always associate her with those enormous gowns and the headpieces, or however she did her hair. But they rarely get to see _her_ , not just as that icon. They didn’t get to see her as a mother or a wife or a politician. I always thought the better iconic image of her would have been the one of her in front of the White House in 1967.”  
  
Maz’s stenciled eyebrows went up. “The bra-burning one?”  
  
Rey nodded and couldn’t help her smile. “That’s more of what she was like in real life. Fashion wasn’t a cage for her. It was a means of communication. She knew she could get the word out about these causes she was passionate about if she used it as a medium.”  
  
Rey couldn’t tell if Maz was impressed. In fact, she couldn’t read the woman’s expression at all. It was thoughtful, certainly, but difficult to tell beyond that.  
  
Maz leaned back in her seat and opened the top desk drawer. She pulled out a copy of _People_ magazine, a newer one if Rey was to judge. Without a word, she slid it across the desk to Rey.  
  
Rey picked it up, glancing over the cover. It was the typical mash of celebrity gossip, of apparent divorces and affairs, who wore what best, and so on. She never made a habit of reading any sort of tabloid if she could help it. She looked up at Maz, frowning. “What am I looking for?”  
  
“On the cover,” Maz said, inclining her head. “What’s it say?”  
  
“Um...” Rey looked again. “Ten celebrities with killer summer bodies?”  
  
“And?”  
  
Rey looked down at the lower right hand corner, to the image of a man in what was apparently throes of rage, tossing something out of frame. “Kylo Ren nearly lands himself in prison,” she read.  
  
“Mhmm. What do you know about him?”  
  
The connection in conversation was obvious. Kylo Ren, actor and model, was the sole grandchild of Padmé Amidala. “His mother was in the United States senate,” Rey said, opening the magazine to the particular article. “And his father was a criminal-turned-actor. Big success story back then.”  
  
The article showed Kylo in various states of anger, either yelling or grimacing. There was only one normal picture of him, clearly from a photoshoot, wearing a plain white shirt with the top button unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled to the elbows. His expression was still on the dour side of neutral, dark eyes narrowed and black hair tousled. He was Hollywood’s current iconic bad boy, and appropriately, he had a large following.  
  
“Known for his enormous and glorious temper tantrums,” Maz said. “He threw a chair at the paparazzi last month.”  
  
Rey knew. Everyone who had access to things like TMZ did. The video circulated on the internet with a gusto. It showed him launching a wooden cafe chair towards a group of photographers, while he swore in a way that could only be described as ‘colorful’. His varied usage of the word ‘fuck’ was to be admired. It intrigued the general public rather than being an affront, and he gained a larger fanbase just for that. It seemed like no one was turned off by it.  
  
“He seems like an attention-seeker to me,” Rey said, scanning the article. It was sensationalist writing, heavy on the adjectives.  
  
“Is that your first impression?”  
  
Rey closed the magazine and put it back on the desk before nodding. “Rude, crass, temperamental,” she said. At the same time, her gut feeling told her she didn’t like where the conversation was going.  
  
“So, that’s to say that is what the public perceives.”  
  
Rey was a little more hesitant with nodding again. “It’s what he’s presented.”  
  
She couldn’t tell if it was the reflection of Maz’s lenses, but her eyes appeared to sparkle. There was some kind of self-satisfied grin, and she folded her hands on the desk. “You certainly can’t be beyond knowledge that your article has gotten massive amounts of praise. Your attention to detail at presenting the life of Padmé Amidala was incredible, and I certainly want to see more of that from you. In fact, I _need_ to see it,” she said. “I’ve already made some calls around, and I have your next story.”  
  
Rey knew what it was, and the thought of it made her feel somewhat queasy. “Yes?”  
  
Maz reached over to grab a pad of Post-Its and a pen. She scribbled out something before peeling a piece off and handing it to Rey. It was an address for somewhere in the Upper East Side and a suite number. “You’ll be meeting with Kylo Ren’s manager. Hollywood’s bad boy or not, he’s got a PR nightmare on his hands, and he’s desperate.”  
  
Rey gripped the paper in one hand and her knee in the other. “But why him? He’s not... I mean, he’s a _model_ , sure, but I wouldn’t associate him with fashion.”  
  
“Consider it a follow-up for the article about his grandmother,” Maz said, and there was something in her voice that suggested there was far more to it. If Rey didn’t know any better, she would have thought that it was something Maz had planned for months. “You’ve certainly piqued interest in her family, and it would only be suitable to focus on its members, yes?”  
  
Rey wanted to say no. She _desperately_ wanted to say no. “I guess,” is what she said, her voice far weaker than she had hoped. Denying Maz Kanata anything was very difficult, if not completely impossible.  
  
“You’ll discuss most of the details with the manager,” Maz went on, sounding pleased. “He’s a reasonable man, fortunately. Very straightforward.”  
  
“Maz,” Rey interjected, fidgeting with the hem of her skirt. “If I could ask, why him? Why not someone like the senator?” Leia Organa was certainly a fashion and political icon of her time, her mother’s clear heir. It would have made far more sense to write an article about her, especially after her reluctant retirement. To write something about her wayward son just seemed counterproductive. Leia would have been far more up Rey’s journalistic alley.  
  
“Let’s just say I have a few favors to fill,” Maz replied easily, her grin moving up to a smirk. “And consider it payment for arriving late.”  
  
Rey couldn’t argue with that, although she certainly wanted to.  
  
\---  
  
“Of all the people in the _world_ , it had to be Kylo _goddamn_ Ren!” Poe exclaimed, bordering on an outright howl of laughter. Jess shot him a glare that made him quiet himself a little, but his smile was still wide. “I mean, you just wrote about the most classy, elegant lady _ever_ and Maz has you writing about her grandson that, by all rights, should be in prison.”  
  
“Please, tell me more,” Rey said, more to Jess’ desk than him. She had decided to temporarily camp in the photography office in order to absorb what she had to do. “I’d love to hear about how much of a terrible person he is or how he’s going to throw a chair at me.”  
  
Poe offered her a pat on the back and an easy grin. “Hey, that probably just means Maz has a lot of faith in you! And it’s not that long of an assignment, right?”  
  
Rey picked up her head and gave him a weary glare. “Two months,” she said.  
  
His eyes widened. “Oh.”  
  
Beside Rey, Jess rolled her eyes and gave her roommate a one-armed hug, pulling the girl close to her hip. “Don’t listen to him. He’s just bitter about the last time he met Kylo.”  
  
Rey frowned. “The last time?”  
  
That turned Poe sullen. “He broke my camera,” he murmured.  
  
“ _Great,_ ” Rey said, tilting her head back to stare at the ceiling tiles.  
  
“Listen,” Jess went on, still holding onto Rey’s shoulder. “You’re going to be _fine_. I know everyone says he’s a total douche, but I don’t think he’s going to mess with a journalist trying to give him a PR boost. He couldn’t be that stupid.”  
  
“I’d have to agree,” Poe said, leaning up against the desk. “And if he does do anything, you can just write something really horrible about him and ruin his career.”  
  
Rey sighed and scrubbed at her forehead with her right hand. “I don’t think that’s going to work.”  
  
“Try it anyway. Say he kicks old ladies and steals their purses or something, or he took money from a charity for orphaned puppies.”  
  
Despite her sullen, morose state, Rey snorted. “That’s called defamation, Poe.”  
  
“That’s called using your power _wisely_ ,” he replied, and gracefully dodged the pencil Jess threw at him.  
  
“Just do your best,” Jess said, and it sounded far more reassuring coming from her. “You’re gonna be fine. There’s not a whole lot he can do to someone if his manager okayed it, right?”  
  
“I hope so,” Rey murmured.  
  
\---  
  
The address Maz gave led to a decadent old building near Central Park. It didn’t seem to serve any singular purpose other than containing some high-end offices. The Art Deco structure stood mildly imposing from the outside, but its interior was more harsh. The general decor remained from its original architecture, so everything was set in repetitive geometric patterns, and it was almost entirely monochrome. Rey walked in to the lobby and blinked hard at the harsh lighting. Her heels clicked on the white marble flooring and echoed through the room, making her feel mildly self-conscious. The few people scattered through the lobby didn’t seem to care, though.  
  
She walked up to the curved desk of the single receptionist, a harsh-looking woman in her early fifties, her pepper-colored hair pulled into a severe bun without a single strand out of place. She regarded Rey without any sense of welcome. “Yes?”  
  
“I’m here to see Mr. Hux in Suite 503. Is he busy?”  
  
The woman scoffed at her. “He’s _always_ busy, miss,” she said, her voice tight and unfriendly. “I can see if he’s in a meeting, at least.”  
  
“Oh, thank you,” Rey replied, trying to maintain her best manners.  
  
The woman picked up a phone and punched in a few numbers. “Yes, Anna? Is Hux in a meeting right now? No? Well, there’s a young lady here to see him. Yes. No, I don’t know.” She paused and lowered the phone to her shoulder. “Your name?”  
  
“Rey Kenobi, from _Aurora_ magazine,” Rey answered.  
  
The woman repeated that to Anna, although she said it as if it was something distasteful. “Alright. Yes. I’ll send her up,” she said before hanging up. She turned her attention back to Rey, flat grey eyes regarding her with an expression that was nothing less than steely. “You can go up now. Fifth floor, turn left out of the elevator and don’t forget to _knock_.” She said the last bit like she expected Rey to be some kind of barbarian.  
  
Rey just nodded tensely and wasted no time going to the elevator.  
  
She followed the receptionist’s directions once she was on the fifth floor, which matched the rest of the building in terms of color choice and style. The walls were black and decorated with panels of interlocking triangles and squares, contrasting to the stark white tile. Rey walked down the hall to left of another receptionist’s desk until she came to Suite 503. Hesitantly, she knocked.  
  
The door opened after a moment, and Rey was greeted by a well-dressed man with a shock of bright red hair. He was dressed simply in a tailored dark gray button-down and black slacks, and his hair looked like it had been tame that morning, but he had raked a hand through it since then. His eyes were incredibly bright, and they looked over Rey like she was something to be studied. Then, he seemed to remember his manners and held is hand out to her.  
  
“Miss Kenobi, is that correct?” he asked, and while his voice had the same English lilt as hers, it was somehow different. More clipped and precise.  
  
“Yes, sir,” she said, returning the gesture.  
  
He let go of her hand and stood aside, allowing her into his office.  
  
It was _enormous._ Rey had no idea why someone would need an office of that size, but there it was. It was large enough to have a large-screen television and two black sofas, a minibar, a small fridge, a suspended black granite countertop boasting a very expensive Keurig, and a desk so large that he could have easily fit four computers on it, yet there was only one. There were two other doors adjoining the room, and Rey guessed that one of them was probably a bathroom. Hux breezed past her and took a seat at his desk, immediately typing something in to his computer. He only looked up once to see her awkwardly lingering near the door before he sighed.  
  
“You can take a seat if you’d like. I can call someone in for beverages,” he said, returning his full attention to the screen.  
  
“That’s alright,” she replied, sitting down in one of the overstuffed black chairs in front of the desk.  
  
Hux then folded his hands on his desk and peered at Rey with a gaze so intense that she almost squirmed from it. If Maz hadn’t inadvertently trained her better, she would have.  
  
“I suppose Maz Kanata outlined your assignment,” he said.  
  
She nodded and avoided her long-standing habit of biting her lip out of nerves. “Roughly, yes.”  
  
“This has been in talks for several months, as it would be the most in-depth article about Kylo Ren outside of an outright biography. Did she explain to you why it’s to be done?”  
  
That was something Maz hadn’t been so clear about, so Rey shook her head.  
  
Hux sighed again and turned his stare to his computer screen. “I’m certain you haven’t missed the lovely approach the tabloids have taken to his... exploits.”  
  
“He threw a chair at the paparazzi,” Rey offered quietly.  
  
“That he did, and it wasn’t the first time,” Hux conceded. “Having Kylo Ren as a client is the equivalent of a PR firm’s worst nightmare. I can’t tell you how much money and manpower I’ve had to expend on his behalf just to keep people quiet. Otherwise, there would be more than just one unflattering photo. You would have interviews broadcasted where he swore at the interviewer and either walked out or broke something before he did. He’s cost a fortune on property damage alone.”  
  
Rey frowned, and her intuition did absolutely nothing to soothe her nerves. “How do you handle it?” she asked  
  
Hux gave the most long-suffering sigh she had ever heard. “Copious amounts of Tylenol and weekly therapy sessions. I also wish on a star every night that he gets hit by a car.” He then cleared his throat and looked back at her. “But that’s just me. I’m his manager, and I might as well be his publicist at the rate he fires them.”  
  
Out of curiosity, “What’s the turnaround?”  
  
“Oh, if we’re lucky, four months.”  
  
There was an enormous temptation to call Maz and tell her there was absolutely no way she could do the article. The way Hux explained it, there was an entirely real chance that her life, or at least her mental well-being would be on the line.  
  
Hux must have sensed it, or he was so used to that kind of reaction that he felt it warranted explanation. “I know what this sounds like, and I’m not going to be the one to say that you’re wrong,” he said. “But I’m also not going to be the one to say that we, as a collective team, aren’t desperate. Kylo Ren is already poised to be one of the single most successful actors in the industry’s history. I was hired in on the idea that I was going to be able to ensure his success, and as much as I’d like for him to promptly walk in front of a bus, I have standards to uphold and a job to do. Part of that job is making sure that he continues to succeed. Do you understand?”  
  
Rey mutely nodded. Hux didn’t seem like the type to just handwave everything that his client had done. If what he said was true, then investing in Kylo Ren was an enormous gamble, but one with a glorious payout if it came through. She knew he had already won multiple awards and had landed roles in star-studded movies that would become classics in time. He was also heir to an iconic dynasty, and as long as he lived, he wouldn’t be able to escape the attention of the media. Hux’s work was cut out for him.  
  
Hux took her silence as urging to go on. “I discussed this with your editor-in-chief several months ago. It was originally just an idea, but she made the point that if a magazine like yours could counteract the damage of the tabloids, it would do us an enormous service. She told me that all she needed was the right writer. Last week, she sent me a copy of your article, and I was inclined to agree with her that you were the right fit.”  
  
In any other situation, Rey would have been flattered. In this, however, she felt like she was being backed into a corner and her choices were either take what had been given to her, or try to escape and potentially get mauled in the process.  
  
Although, at this rate, it sounded like she would have gotten mauled either way.  
  
“She said it would be a two month project,” Rey said, trying her best to keep her eyes level on Hux.  
  
He nodded. “Yes, two months exactly. It would most likely start at the end of the summer. I know she had preferences for it to extend into New York’s Fashion Week in September, as he’s set to go there as a guest.”  
  
“I don’t think he would take kindly to a reporter following him around for two months,” she went on, and if it sounded like she was trying to weasel her way out of the assignment, it was nothing she intended.  
  
“No, he wouldn’t,” Hux agreed. “But he would object far less to a personal assistant.”  
  
At first, Rey was going to nod. But before the muscles in her neck could so much as twitch, her brain repeated his sentence at least six more times. It sank in slowly but precisely.  
  
_Personal assistant._  
  
Rey didn’t know much about the world of celebrities in the level of detail that the celebrity columnists at _Aurora_ did, but she knew enough to know what a personal assistant did. They followed around their particular celebrity like a dog on a leash, essentially attending to their every whim on top of making phone calls, scheduling appointments, and getting them to their destinations on time. It was a job that was never meant for one person, let alone a journalist who had no experience with that. Rey had done an extraordinary job of taking care of herself, and it was beyond difficult to imagine not only doing that for someone else, but doing that for someone who was not wildly famous, but infamous for his raging temper and destructive tendencies.  
  
There were a lot of protests she was about to voice, but all she could manage was a strained, “ _What?_ ”  
  
Again, Hux seemed to expect that reaction. “Maz and I both agreed that having you as a stand-in personal assistant for two months would be the best and least intrusive way to observe and interview him,” he said casually, like he was talking about the weather and not his ticking time-bomb of a client. “You would hardly be alone, since obviously you haven’t done this as a profession before. You would be mentored, while also affording you the privacy that assistants do not normally have. You’ll hardly be his _sole_ assistant.”  
  
That didn’t make her feel any better, or even more confident.  
  
“Of course,” Hux went on, his expression shifting to something all-knowing. “You have the complete freedom to turn this down. But I’ll take the liberty to remind you that this could potentially be one of the greatest and most successful articles you have ever written.”  
  
Rey thought of the journalistic greats that were her predecessors. Capote faced off with two cold-blooded murderers, Nellie Bly braved a notorious asylum to obtain justice for its victims, and many more had faced literal warfare to get their stories.  
  
And all she had to do was cohabitate with a temperamental actor for two months to get hers.  
  
“I’ll do it,” she said, and she didn’t miss the way that Hux seemed to decompress like some great burden had been lifted off of him.  
  
“Good,” he replied, and she figured it was as close as he would ever be to ecstatic. He immediately turned to his computer, clicking and pulling up a calendar. “This week isn’t going to be doable, unfortunately. He’s finishing up a film promotion and won’t be done until Friday. Saturday is... workable,” he said, clicking on something. “Just a photoshoot with GQ in the morning, but that’s just downtown. We might be able to arrange you meeting him there. Lunch, maybe. I’d have to get in some reservations, but honestly, that’s nothing.”  
  
Lunch with Kylo Ren. Sitting down with one of the most famous men in the entertainment world, eating _lunch_ with him. Rey felt a little bit faint, and also a little nauseous. So far, her initial impression of him had been the farthest thing from stellar. If anything, it felt like she was approaching a black hole.  
  
Hux made a final click and then sighed. “Alright, I’ll print up the contract for you and you’ll be on your way. It’s simple and straightforward, so there shouldn’t be an issue. I’ll also forward the meeting details to your work email this evening.”  
  
“That’s fine,” Rey said with a nod.  
  
As Hux’s printer hummed to life and he handed her a silver fountain pen that was easily worth more than her phone and purse combined, Rey couldn’t help but feel like she was about to sign herself into something far worse than she figured.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://radiojamming.tumblr.com)
> 
> *No Huxs were harmed in the making of this fic. Okay, no. Maybe just a little.
> 
>   ~~And Jess/Phasma? Maybe? Is that just me wanting that? I totally want that.~~


End file.
